


You're Fucked

by ifinkufreaky



Series: Under the Coat [6]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Flogging, Heavy BDSM, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knifeplay, Nipple Play, Rough Sex, she's into it but definitely nothing is negotiated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: Bobo has captured you for questioning, and the interrogation doesn’t go how he’s planned. Why do his scary torture techniques all have to be so sexy?





	You're Fucked

The desperate movement of your wrists serves no purpose but to make a clanging sound, ringing through the small, dark space of wherever this basement is that Bobo Del Rey has dragged you to. He’s cuffed both of your wrists to either side of a metal gurney that looks like the kind of table they usually do autopsies on.

You’re fucked. Bobo snatched you off the street not five minutes after you finished your lunch meeting with Wynonna and Waverly at the diner. A meeting where you had been discussing all kinds of sensitive information, sharing quite a few magical secrets as you continued the plan you had been cooking up together for constricting the boundary lines that keep the revenants locked inside the Ghost River Triangle.

And you can see it in his eyes, he knows you have something he can use. Someone must have overheard at least some portion of what you’re working on, and carried the information back to the dreaded revenant boss. And the fact that you’re the one strapped to this table means he must have thought you would be the easiest target to go after.

He’d stripped you down to your underwear before cuffing you down; now you’re clad only in black panties and a camisole that doesn’t really hide the edges of a lacy bralette underneath. He had probably done it just to scare you even more, and on that front he had _partially_ succeeded.

What he had also done, embarrassingly enough, is started to fucking turn you on, as he manhandled you out of your clothing. You’d always had a dirty little crush on Mr. Del Rey, ever since he started throwing his weight around town. He’d started by wiping the floor with a few local scumbags you’d always despised, making sure he was the only criminal element in town who had ties to the mystical realms, and earned your secret admiration in the process.

You understand that he’s evil; even if you could forget his deeds, a corrupted, tantalizing aura surrounds him wherever he goes. To the senses of a magical practitioner like you, it smells like fresh asphalt and looks like an oil slick. That’s why you’ve been helping the Earps out with this current occult solution, one that will hopefully restrict Bobo and the other revenants to such a small physical zone that they’ll be as easy for Peacemaker to pick off as fish in a barrel. You’ve already started gathering the artifacts you need to pull the spell off; at present you are very, very close to being able to control the walls that hold the revenants in.

Except that right now, none of that will help you. Right now, you’re practically naked on a slab underneath the looming presence of Bobo Del Rey, your hands chained uselessly at your sides. And as long as your wrists are encased in cold iron like this, you’ll be unable to perform even the slightest bit of magic to try and get yourself out of this mess.

And even more unfortunately, Bobo is just… the sexy kind of evil. His every effort to intimidate you is only making him more attractive to you. He puts one hand on either edge of the metal table beneath you, leaning his face in so close to your own that you can feel his breath wash warm and spiced over your mouth. “You are going to tell me _everything_ about what you and Wynonna Earp are cooking up.” His eyes lock onto yours, ferocious and hard.

You get wetter. You lick your lips before you answer. “Or what?”

Bobo grins, the hungry smile of a demon about to feast. “Or I get to see which kinds of pain are your least favorite.”

He leans closer, and his teeth scrape your cheek. His jaw opens and he bites the flesh over your cheekbone, hard enough to sting, to maybe even break the skin.

You flinch and twist beneath him, but he holds you still with a hand around the side of your face. He licks the mark he’s made before straightening back up, chuckling at you. Again, he probably thinks he’s being really scary. But fuck, that was hot. A rush of warmth floods your body even as your cheek burns.

“And I’ve got so many tools here to play with.” He steps over to a tray laid out on a counter built into the wall. Various sharp and wicked-looking implements are lined up there in a neat little row. It’s such a lazy cliché that you figure it’s mostly for show; a horror movie scene designed to get you talking, fast.

Bobo picks up some jagged bit of metal that you don’t really let your eyes focus on, and turns back to look down on you with a sadistic grin. He takes a deep breath, no doubt to begin an over-the-top villain speech, but the hinges of the door at the top of the stairs squeal. The building above you shudders as the heavy thing slams open against the wall.

“Boss,” a curt voice calls down. “Clem wants to know if you want to come look over the new shipment. Just showed up.”

Bobo slams his torture implement back onto the tray. He whirls toward the stairs, voice roaring: “Did I not say, ‘no interruptions’.”

“Yeah,” the man emerging through the door hesitates, wavering at the threshold, “but you also said we’re not supposed to let the next truck leave until the delivery got inspected, and everything was actually there this time.”

Bobo’s gaze remains fixed on the intruder. But as the man speaks, your captor’s hand wraps idly around one of your ankles. It’s a casual, self-indulgent little movement, like he’s petting his dog while thinking about something else. “I know what I said.” Even you can hear the danger in the softness of his tone.

The man at the top of the stairs seems oblivious. “So… we stopped the truck. And now the driver wants to know when he can leave.”

Letting go of your leg as suddenly as he had reached out for it, Bobo stomps up the half flight of stairs leading up to the door out of the basement. He grabs the man’s neck, twisting it with one hand to such an awkward angle that you expect to hear a snap. “I also said, _no interruptions_ right now.”

The man’s mouth gapes, open and closed, like a fish out of water as he tries to answer without any airflow. Both he and Bobo have slipped into the blackened red eyes of their revenant forms.

Bobo’s expressive fingers tighten. “When I say I am not going to be interrupted, I mean that I am _not fucking going to_ be interrupted!” You hear a small pop just before Bobo releases the pressure on his undead henchman. “Tell Clem, he can do the inspection himself.” Then he pushes the man, by the neck, back through the open door.

“Y-y-you got it boss,” the revenant rasps. His head is stuck at an odd angle, and his voice is definitely off. But you suppose, since nothing can kill these guys but for Peacemaker, Bobo can probably get away with fucking them up however he wants to.

The door slams shut behind him. It’s heavy and metal and booms an ominous sound through the dank space of the room. The sound of your fate being sealed.

Bobo turns back to you. He hasn’t transformed his face back to normal, has kept the darkness bleeding out of his eyes, and he flexes his hands as he returns down the basement stairs like what he had just done was only a warm-up for you.

Really, you know you should be scared. But fuck if he doesn’t look sexy enough to make you press your thighs together tight against the rush of arousal blooming at the sight of him menacing toward you, pulling a big and shiny knife from a sheath on his belt.

Bobo stops. He cocks his head to the side, examining you closely. “You feeling more cooperative now? Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on with those Earp girls, before things have to get messy down here.”

You suppress a shudder. “I’m not telling you shit.”

Bobo nods, courteous-like. “Fair enough.” He takes just one step closer to your bound and half-naked body. “Then I’ll ask a different kind of question. A little guessing game.” He flourishes the knife. “What do you think I’m going to do with this?”

You gulp, swallowing a weird little moan instigated by the fact that Bobo has just stumbled upon one of your darkest fetishes. You can think of plenty of places you’d love for him to threaten you with that thing.

Bobo blinks, and pulls back a little. “Wait. Is this turning you on?”

Your pride speaks first. “No!”

Bobo only smirks, settling back into his stance. "Don’t deny it, darlin’. I can tell you're hot and bothered from all the way over here." You shake your head, but he nods back at you as he prowls closer. His eyes flick down your scantily-clad body. “Your nipples look like they could cut glass.”

“it's cold in here.”

He comes to a stop next to your hip, looming over the table you’re lying upon. The closest to sitting up you can manage is to prop yourself up on your elbows, given how tightly your wrists are pinned to the table’s edges. Your knees flex high, curling in toward your belly on a self-protective reflex. It doesn’t help; you still feel absolutely open to whatever he might try to do. “Only one way to find out,” he says.

Bobo sheathes the knife, then reaches out to the bare skin behind your knee. His dancing fingers tickle their way down the back of your thigh. A fresh rush of circulation creates an anticipatory tingle in your vulnerable pussy. Without hesitation, Bobo slips one finger deftly under your panties, swipes it between your lower lips, and grins darkly. “So wet, a man might drown.” And if the state of your pussy wasn’t evidence enough, the way your face melts at the feeling of his finger between your folds has got to be the most damning confirmation of all. “This is going to be more fun than I thought.”

He drags that finger up and down, gathering your slick, gliding easily up to circle your clit and stoke the embers of your arousal into a bright, terrible blaze. He gives a satisfied little laugh and then releases you abruptly, turning back to his array of torture implements.

You make an outraged sound when he picks up a rusty saw that you can’t imagine serving any kind of sexual purpose. Bobo looks back at you with a stern face. “What? This is still an interrogation. Just… it may have a few more possibilities now. After you tell me what I want to know.”

Shit. Terror finally starts to overwhelm arousal as he brings the ugly thing closer to your face. You retreat before its advance until you’re laying back down flat on the table again.

He lets the serrated blade hover somewhere between your eyes. “Now. Tell me where you’re hiding it.”

“Hiding what?”

The blade scrapes across the bridge of your nose. “You know what.”

But the real question is, does he know what you’ve got? Or is he just fishing? You squirm a little for him, making sure to push your tits up in the fearful gesture, and when his eyes follow the movement, linger there, you know he’s tempted to take the distracting, alternate bait.

Bobo pulls the saw away before any skin is broken. “Nothing to say?” The saw goes back on the tray, and he comes back with a pair of antique-looking blacksmith’s pliers, the kind with blunt, squared-off tips. There’s a devilish glee in his eyes as he examines your chest now.

You suck in a breath as the cold metal of the tool touches your breastbone. Bobo clamps onto the neckline of your camisole and uses the grip to rip it down your chest, exposing the lacy cups of your bralette. He drags that heavy, smooth edge up to the peak of one breast, then opens the jaws of the clamp to threaten your nipple under the too-thin fabric.

He pauses, looking up at you from under an arched, heavy brow. “Anything jogging your memory now?”

Your heart is beating fast and thick in your throat as you stare down at the vulnerable state of your own chest. You might not be able to speak even if you could decide what to say.

The metal jaws close softly, scooping up your tender flesh in a grip that’s snug, but not yet painful. You can hear the loud sound of your own breath, coming fast now. Bobo’s is coming fast too. He twists your nipple in his tool, just enough to make you yelp, and then releases the grip with a laugh. Still just teasing. Still getting your panties fucking soaking.

He leans in over you, resting his belly against your hip, so he can relax while he fucks around with your tits some more. The odd intimacy of the contact eases you somehow. His solid warmth anchors your lower half even as he threatens your upper. He certainly seems to be distracted from his original intent; his mouth hangs open as he slides the pliers under the almost-sheer fabric of your bra, pulling it away hard enough to rip the lacey little thing. He doesn’t stop until he’s got your full breast exposed for him. With a happy little sound of his own, he leans in to give a sucking little lick around your nipple before repeating the process to free your other tit.

Bobo’s eyes are lit up with some kind of demonic playfulness as he takes your bare nipple in between those blunt pliers, stretching it up far enough for you to suck in your breath at the intensity before letting it drop again. He hasn’t asked another question, and doesn’t really seem to be trying to hurt you now. He plucks at both nipples in turn with the evil-looking tool, just hard enough to make you gasp and moan but not doing any real damage.

And thus your only plan is formed: to seduce Bobo hard enough and long enough to make him forget he was willing to hurt you, to not care that he isn’t getting any information out of you, until you can find an opening for a real escape. There are plenty of spells you can use to save yourself if you can just get this cold steel off your wrists.

Bobo leans in to slurp at your tender skin. You find yourself moaning under his tongue, behind the eager suction of his mouth. You don’t even have to fake anything to pull this plan off. Just enjoy the ride, and keep your head clear enough to notice when you have a chance to slip his grip.

Before you can find a way to hint to Bobo that you could have even more fun if your hands were free, he pulls away, staring down at your writhing form with dark, lustful eyes. “Your body,” he remarks, voice low and rich, “it’s so beautifully responsive. Makes me think of another game we could play. It’s called: Hold Still.”

“That’s not hard to do, with my arms chained down like this.”

Bobo just smirks, tossing the pliers off to the side with a clatter. His other hand is rubbing softly against your inner thigh. You wonder if he even realizes he keeps petting you. “We’ll see.” He produces his blade from the sheath at his belt again. It’s a big fucker, a hunting knife, with a shiny steel edge and a squared-off back that gets serrated close to the grip. The handle is dark wood, polished from years of loving use.

Your breath catches in your throat as he brings it close to your belly. “Kinky little bitch, aren’t you,” he intones as he watches your eyes follow the sharp side of the blade. Slowly, he brings the thing over to the inside of your arm, sees the way you shiver as he drags the wide, cold flat of the blade up your bicep and over the front of your shoulder. “This thing really does it for you, huh.”

The movement slows there; he tilts his head in concentration as he gives the blade a little twist at the top of your shoulder. There is a tug at the strap of your already-torn clothing. The blade scrapes against your skin, but Bobo’s real aim is to cut through your bra and cami. He growls in vague irritation when the two layers of fabric don’t part as easily as he wanted; his other hand fists into the material to pull it tauter. He saws through it in two more curt tugs.

Your tits were already out, but this still makes you feel extra naked, now in the knowledge that your clothes are shredded, unable to provide coverage if you were to need it in the future. That’s all right, you’ll handle it. Just stay focused on getting out of here eventually.

Bobo drags the tip of his heavy knife across your chest, and it’s hard to stay focused on anything. “I wonder how far I’ll have to go before you get your sense back, and realize you should be scared of me.”

You can’t help but squirm as both his eyes and his weapon head toward your left nipple.

“The name of the game is Hold Still, remember?” Bobo warns.

You catch your breath at the cold steel hitting your sensitive flesh. He doesn’t try to cut you there, just teases the flat of the blade over your pebbled nipple until he’s sure it’s as hard as he can make it. He pauses, just for a moment, to adjust his cock in his pants. Your cunt is positively aching by the time he finishes giving the same treatment to the second one, and when his dark gaze catches your eye you make a needy sound and roll your hips toward him.

The smile that breaks across his face is wicked. “Is that where you want me to go.” He brings the blade to the center of your chest and starts dragging it downward, letting it fall harder this time, leaving a red wheal in its wake. He pauses to cut the rest of your top away, clearing his path.

Now the only thing covering you is those little black panties. They won’t provide any obstacle to his knife at all.

When he gets there he drags a line, back and forth, just above the waistband. The scraping feels deeper and you whimper, wondering if he’s going to draw blood.

“If you flinch, we have to start over.”

You suppress your shudder as Bobo spreads your legs, then traces idle designs over your inner thighs. He pulls your right leg off the table so he can position himself in between, wrapping it around his hip to hold you open to him.

You’re not flinching, but that doesn’t mean you’re relaxed. Even though this is hot as fuck, your body is reacting intensely to being so helpless under Bobo’s threat, the sharpness of his blade. You find that you’re pulling your arms as tight to your body as the cuffs can allow, despite the way the metal is biting into your wrists. You try to ease up but then his blade slides over your panty line and there’s no choice but to keep pulling at your bonds.

“This is too easy for you.” Bobo’s scowl is half a pout as he ponders your taut stillness. He sets the knife down and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. When he rolls it up, you realize he means it for a blindfold.

He leans over the line of your body to tie the cloth around your head, forcing your knee that’s bent up around his hip to come with, pressing your open pussy right into his crotch. When you moan at the contact Bobo hesitates, taking a moment of his own to enjoy grinding against you. He’s not lined up perfectly, but you can feel the edge of his hardness inside your thigh.

“You want that, huh,” Bobo murmurs. He tilts so that his full thickness presses right across your center. “Unfortunately,” his lips fall close to your ear, so his rumbling voice tickles your eardrum, “I can’t give you what you want,” he snaps his teeth shut around your earlobe, “until you give me what I want. You’ve got to earn it.”

You rattle your chains against the table, struggling to increase the contact of your body against his, but even though he’s fully hard Bobo does not seem inclined to change his mind. He ties the blindfold tight around your head and presses a mockingly-sweet kiss to your cheek.

The next kiss you feel is his knife against your skin. Your body goes rigid again. “Not as easy to stay still when you can’t see what’s coming, is it,” Bobo observes with a chuckle.

It isn’t. Instead of tracing a steady path, now the blade appears and disappears, first tickling your ribs, then ghosting along your thigh, then a sudden stinging line above your hip. You manage not to move, but it has a cost in the whimpering you can’t quite stop from escaping your throat every time that deadly sharp metal lands in another unexpected place.

Bobo seems to enjoy the way he’s shredding your dignity. “Mmm, yes,” he rumbles, “keep making those pretty noises for me.” The hand that isn’t holding his knife has a grip just above your left knee. His thumb is stroking back and forth, as if he has a split personality, and something inside him wants to soothe you even as his other hand terrorizes.

The cool blade comes back to your panty line, teasing along where your leg joins your body. Just a few passes across the thin fabric covering the top of your mound has your breath starting to come ragged.

His voice twists high and mocking as he speaks for you. “’No, Bobo, not there!’” Pointing out what you should be saying, but you’re not. The flat of the blade ghosts over your pussy lips, where you’re sure the fabric is soaked.

A moan that’s almost a squeal is the only response he gets from you, when he uses that flat edge to roll delicious, terrifying pressure over your clit.

Then the tip of his blade is dancing again, threatening your most delicate flesh. You finally do flinch when a jerky movement scrapes just outside your lower lips. Instead of gloating, Bobo makes a soothing sound in the back of his throat. “Don’t you trust me?” His other hand comes to assist; he was only working on slicing your panties open.

Some strange feeling settles over you once Bobo has disposed with the last scrap of fabric and gotten you completely bare to him; some high that comes when the intensity in your brain jacks up so loud that the anxiety burns out into a tingling sort of calm. Having your eyes covered certainly amplifies the effect. You’re floating at the bottom of the ocean, and down here there is nothing but Bobo’s breath on your newly-exposed skin, and the delicate scrape of the blunt side of his knife as he uses it to spread your pussy wider.

His face must be close, judging by the air that’s passing across your core in time to his breaths. In your mind you’re begging for his tongue to press hard and fast there, but your words are a million miles away right now. You feel only his hot breath and the cool back of his knife dragging across your folds.

The blade slips away and something else touches your core, thick and solid. As it swirls around your opening you can tell it’s too hard and wide to be his fingers. And he hadn’t moved for that wicked tray on the counter… so he must have flipped his big knife around, so he can work the smooth wooden handle against the entrance to your body, rubbing against your slick walls to ease it inside.

The pressure is… so satisfying. All thoughts of dignity are lost in favor of Bobo finally giving you something solid after all that teasing. You sigh and lift your hips a little.

“Like that, do you?” He twists it, and you gasp at the intensity of the sudden movement. “If you’re happy, then I’m not doing my job very well.” He pushes harder, and you all but scream as he forces the thing faster into you.

Vaguely, you hear him laugh as he angles the thick handle closer to your g-spot and starts pumping it in and out. You’re making some kind of squealing cry and pulling against the handcuffs again – it feels good but so entirely out of control, such a hard thing banging against your softness that you can’t stop cringing even as you gasp with growing ecstasy.

After a few moments of that, the fingers of his other hand pinch around your clit. Now you’re really in trouble, that knot of pleasure deep inside you starting to coil up tight. Your breathing gets just as tight, your incoherent noises getting sharper as Bobo rolls your nub in time to the fucking of his tool.

He pauses his work on your clit just long enough to reach up and rip your blindfold down. He’s watching your face with interest, and you can’t hide the way your eyes roll up into your head as soon as his skilled fingers return to his rhythm down there. “Would you come if I kept this up?” He sounds raggedly eager for such a thing. “Like a dirty slut, all over the handle of my fucking knife?”

You close your eyes tight against the truth and nod furiously.

“Look at me,” he demands.

You drag your eyes open, focus on the features of his evil, handsome face. For a moment it sobers you, to have to face reality, who it is that’s making you feel this way, but as soon as he gives that smug, devilish little smirk you’re lost in another wave of needy bliss. Even when his features bleed into that black and red revenant face, and his demonic aura blazes into something that seems about to corrupt you to the core, your treacherous body only blooms closer to the brink of orgasm.

He must be able to see it behind your eyes, hear it in the hitch of your breath, because just a moment after he transforms his fingers still, and the knife handle slips away from you. “Only good girls get to come,” he pronounces, eyes still glowing red. “And you haven’t yet told me anything I want to know.”

You scream your frustration through your teeth at him. He laughs and slaps your clit, hard enough to make you flinch, though the sensation was almost enough to push you over the edge anyway. You’re throbbing and ragged with your need for him now. “Bobo…”

He cocks his head to the side, waiting for you to say more.

That fucker. He hasn’t driven you mad enough to want to betray the Earps, of course not. You still need to keep him off this subject. Just long enough to get free… But maybe the time is ripe for that now. “Please—” It’s hard to speak around your panting breath, with your throat already raw from the sounds he’s been forcing out of you, “—give me… give me a minute.” He pulls back, friendly-like, though he’s watching you like a hawk. He lets his face revert to human as you struggle to sit up. Maybe you can get just a little more control here if you can be looking him even in the eye. “Please.” Submit, distract, escape. Still the only play here. “My wrists really hurt. Can you…?” You look up at him pitifully.

His lip twists. It’s some kind of smile, but not necessarily a friendly one. He reaches for your left handcuff and your heart starts beating in your throat. All you need is about two unbound seconds.

Alas, he releases the cuff attached to the table, not the one around your wrist. That’s not any better, magical-limitations-wise. But you try not to let on that he didn’t give you what you actually wanted, as you bring your sore arms together and rub at the chafing on your wrists.

“That better?” His sympathy is clearly feigned. “Would you like me to get you a glass of water, too?”

“Not very easy to talk with a dry throat.”

Bobo nods along with you, but something is brewing behind his eyes. Suddenly, the cuffs around your wrists fly up into the air, pulling your arms up high along with them. You almost forgot about his damned telekinesis. “I’m running out of patience,” he growls, pressing his forehead close to yours. “Tell me where the talisman is.”

You blurt the first cheeky, childish phrase that pops into your head. “Up your butt and to the left.”

The slap to your face is swift and firm. “Try again.”

“I’m not giving you shit.”

Bobo smacks your other cheek. This time you don’t bother to respond, and his next slap comes across your tits. With your arms pulled high like this, they must make perfectly tempting targets. His gaze narrows in on them and he delivers a few more strikes.

Bobo pauses. One thumb traces around a painfully erect nipple. His other hand drops, pops open his belt buckle.

Your pussy gushes hot again.

“Nothing else to say to me?” He tears his eyes from your chest to study the defiance in your face for a long moment. “Fine. Let’s try more pain.”

The cuffs jerk forward, throwing your body into Bobo’s waiting arms. His gasoline-and-hellfire scent overwhelms you for a moment, the fleeting warmth of his chest against yours reminding you how cold the air is in this basement. He drags you off the table, and as soon as your feet are under you he’s pushing you toward the wall. The cuffs around your wrist stick high up to the painted cinderblocks like he’s glued them there.

You spread your palms against the bricks, trying to keep your face from colliding with the wall. You hear Bobo drawing his belt out of his pants and you’re pretty sure you know what’s coming. Still, you can’t help but stick your ass out for him, enticing. Maybe you can seduce him away from spending too much time on pain.

_Thwack._ The folded belt collides firmly with your left asscheek, the leather making more noise against itself than it did against your skin. He’s started off easy. Maybe that means there’s hope for you. _Thwhack._ The next blow hits just on top of the first, stinging more.

The third blow makes you twist; the fourth draws a cry. “That’s right,” Bobo rasps, and delivers another blow. “If you won’t talk, I’ll just have to make you sing.”

He spreads his work down your thigh, and over to the other side. You both seem to get lost in the rhythm of it, strikes and wails in counter-tempo. Heat, then aching pain, build up in the flesh of your backside, until this starts to feel like real torture. You may have lost what little control of this situation that you had. How long is he prepared to beat you? When is he going to be satisfied?

When his stinging belt finds the same welt on the side of your ass for maybe the seventh time, you scream for him. “Stop!”

The next blow doesn’t come.

You just need a little, tiny fucking break; otherwise you don’t know how you’re going to take any more. “Aren't you going to ask me any more questions?” you sniffle. Plan be damned.

Bobo’s reply is mocking, as always. “Oh, you're ready to talk?” 

You may be feeling weak, but you still can’t give Wynonna up. “No.”

Bobo’s belt slaps your hip; you suck in your breath through your teeth. “Then no.” He whacks your other thigh. “I’m just gonna keep going until your legs can’t hold you up anymore. Then, I might come back and see if you’re in a better mood tomorrow.”

You try once more to stay strong through the onslaught, but the pain quickly takes away the little self-control you had left.

“No more! Please!”

And yet dread fills you when he actually stops. You hear him step closer. He runs one hand up the back of your tortured thigh. “Not having fun anymore, are you,” he gloats. “I bet you couldn’t manage to stay wet through all that.”

His fingers slip so easily through the flesh between your legs. Bobo grunts, sounding surprised at your continued slickness, and keeps exploring your sex as he breathes heavily over your shoulder.

The contrast of pain to pleasure makes your head spin. You’re not sure your pussy has ever felt so reactive as it does right now. You can’t help but press into his fingers, and whimper in need as he takes that as encouragement to dive inside. His rumbling reply sounds almost animal as you take him down to the knuckles.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, brushing his nose along your shoulder as his right hand caresses your side, and down along your tortured hip. He traces the hot lines he’s left; you whimper and curl over his other hand, still fucking into you.

“Oh yes, baby,” Bobo rasps, “keep making those beautiful noises.”

It’s not hard to comply with that order, when he keeps playing with the marks he’s left on you. His fingers find every burning welt, rap and pinch against blooming bruises, making you twist and squeal and cry over the fingers buried deep inside you.

His lips find your neck, with sharp teeth quick to follow. He’s all but gnawing on you by the time he finally cracks, making a needy noise as he slides his fingers out of your pussy. “Turn around.”

The psychic pull on your cuffs drops, and you spin around in your tormentor’s arms. The rawness in his face surprises you as he studies your eyes; Bobo always looks a little unhinged, but this seems almost bent backwards. He slams your shoulders back against the wall and nothing in his wildness is feigned or calculated anymore. Cuffs dangling, your hands come to his shoulders just to steady yourself. You wouldn’t dream of trying to push him away now. You can see how much he wants you, and every fiber in your being is crying out for the same.

His hands move swiftly, desperately at his fly, and as soon as he’s whipped his cock out he’s pulling at your thighs. You scream at the pressure on your thoroughly tenderized flesh, but the sound does not stop him from hoisting you up against the wall and then pinning you up there with his cock.

His forced entry is brutal and everything you want. His first few frantic thrusts have you lubricated enough for pleasure to overwhelm pain, and as he impales you fully against the wall you feel stuffed to your absolute limit.

The noise he makes as he bottoms out in you sounds almost as vulnerable as you feel. His eyes are wide and overwhelmed with a need not satisfied, but instead just beginning to rise like a storm. You get the distinct sense that somehow everything before this point was playacting, and now you’re face to face with something more real in the man.

Bobo grasps you tight beneath the hips, somewhere just below your ass where you mercifully did not already get too bruised, and holds you steady against the wall as he really fucks into you, fast and ferocious.

You can’t help but wail his name as his onslaught breaks down the last resistance you had left to him. His eyes hypnotize you, wide and needy and utterly dominating. Like you’re the only thing in the world for him, and all he needs is to see the absolute end of you.

Your body tightens and swells around him, even as his pace gets wild, his breathing ragged. The rest is inevitable.

There's a bonding that happens when two people on the brink of orgasm are staring into each others' eyes. Unavoidable. You see Bobo try to fight it, you do too, but it feels too good to look away. There’s no resisting. As you fall into the blinding abyss of orgasm, your pumping cunt dragging him along after you, a piece of your soul slides past the armored plate around his heart. The wild, fiery thing that is the core of him sucks up into your essence too. You’ll always be connected now. Whatever comes next.

Bobo’s hips stutter out the end of his orgasm, grinding you against the wall, until he stills and slumps his upper body against yours with a satisfied sigh. Then he eases you both down to the floor, pulling you into his lap as he leans his back against the wall.

The cuddle feels more possessive than kind. Even as you’re both struggling to catch your breaths, Bobo’s twitchy fingers still have to move, winding in your hair and stroking you like a favored pet.

Maybe favorite pets get special favors. Bobo’s palm slides down your arm, reaches the cuff still attached to your wrist, and you dare to hope again. You turn your hand up under his gaze, and his fingers trace the angry red marks that the metal has bit into your skin. You wince when he touches a spot that has started welling up a little blood.

He says nothing, but with a tilt of his head the cuffs on both your wrists spring open, and fall away. “You’re still mine,” he says, voice thick and rich with still-ebbing pleasure, “but I’ll let you eat, and sleep, and heal up a little, before I question you again.”

This is your chance. Your escape is here. Still, you feel a little sad as you rub your wrists, freed from cold iron, and look up at Bobo Del Rey from the warm circle of his arms. He’s still giving you bedroom eyes and you have to remind yourself that he is _not_ your lover. “You don’t know much about witches,” you say softly to him, “do you?”

Just as his brow starts to crease with suspicion, you say the incantation for the transformation spell. His grasping fingers try to get a hold on your arms, but he can’t keep up with the twisting and shrinking of your bones. Everything blooms larger in front of your eyes, but you’ve done this enough times to keep from getting disoriented. You hold the image of a tiny mouse, a shrew, really, firm in your mind’s eye, until you feel your limbs shorten into four little paws and you can scurry away across the floor.

That metal door may have kept an ordinary woman down here for weeks, months, as was surely Bobo’s plan. But this basement is old. There are plenty of cracks to allow freedom to such a tiny creature as you have become.

Bobo is swearing and roaring above you, but he’s not fast enough to slam his boot down before you slip through a gap under the stairs.

Turns out, every once in a while, a girl can have her cake and eat it too.


End file.
